Roxy Music

Sore limbs make their way through windy SoHo Sunday streets. The tourists are back and you practice your eye rolls as they shuffle against the grain. Images of hours past flash before you while you weave north with the traffic: unfamiliar buildings stacked outside the window, designer details and late night cocktails, warm skin against your fingertips and words that have to swim through your turmoiled blood streams before landing against your spine. A little voice inside you is terrified, but she doesn't speak for you anymore. Because there's another voice whispering, and though she is quiet, she is convincing: this is so worth it you know not the half of it.

The bartender bought my drink last night, and I knew it was New York winking. I looked at my pale skin this morning and it's like after so many years of knowing each other, I am only now beginning to recognize it as my own. When I woke up, you were still awake and writing. I felt so safe. I return to my own bed, the dog snores, Monday morning looms: I don't know the half of how good things can be.

But I’m starting to.